


What We Really Want

by Sunnyrea



Series: Team Machine [4]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: 4x18, Established Relationship, M/M, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-31
Updated: 2015-03-31
Packaged: 2018-03-20 12:46:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3650853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunnyrea/pseuds/Sunnyrea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Iris is what I think I want, not what I really want.”</i>
  <br/>
  <i>"Not what you really want?"</i>
  <br/>
  <i>John stops a meter in front of Harold and his hands ball into loose fists. He gives Harold a look but does not say anything; he does not need to.</i>
</p><p>[Harold and John get past the distances their new identities have forced on them and back to each other]</p>
            </blockquote>





	What We Really Want

**Author's Note:**

> Episode tag for 4x18 "Skip."

Harold sits at the wooden desk outside of the subway car with his computer in front of him. He stares at the space just to the left of his computer monitor where a missing silver device should be. He is alone now, Root is gone as he requested and his plan is still destroyed. Part of him is screaming there has to still be a way; he could make a new device, he could try to get back into Beth's good graces, spend more months playing the Harold Whistler she wanted. Another part cries it is pointless, why is he trying at all? A very small part tells him Root was right and was this really the time to throw away his life? He wonders, as he rarely does, what exactly the Machine said to Root. Did the Machine feel Harold’s life was a sacrifice worth the benefit of Samaritan code or did the Machine believe in Harold and think he would survive?

Harold shakes his head and breathes out a long breath. There is no point in wondering or wishing, what is done is done. 

Harold shifts his eyes back to his computer. He should probably check in with John to ensure everything went well with their number. He glances at his phone and sees he has a voicemail. However, as Harold is reaching to click in to listen he hears familiar footsteps and Bear stirs in the far corner. 

Harold turns partway in his chair as John steps onto the platform. “I trust things were resolved with Ms. Wells?”

John nods. “She’s safe, though she does a pretty good job of taking care of herself too.”

Harold makes a face as he notices the various marks on John’s face. “And you as well.”

John touches a hand to the side of his head and shrugs. “Nice to have someone to fight alongside you when you’re stuck in handcuffs.

Harold frowns. “I feel as if I shouldn’t ask.”

John grins then steps up next to Harold by the desk. “And then there’s Harper.”

“Harper?”

“Didn’t get my message, Finch?”

Harold clears his throat. “I’ve… been busy.”

John frowns. “Busy?”

“You mentioned Ms. Rose?”

“She’s getting texts from the Machine.”

Harold’s eyebrows fly up. “Texts?”

John nods. “As Ernest Thornhill. Looks like the Machine may be recruiting too, Finch.”

Harold glances off into space and clicks his teeth. The larger implications of the Machine’s plans are not yet clear to him but there certainly is something happening, a groundwork being laid. 

“Finch?”

Harold looks back at John. “That is good to know, Mr. Reese. We should keep a closer eye on Ms. Rose whenever possible if she is becoming an unknowing ally.”

“She’ll make it hard.”

“I am sure we are up to the challenge.”

John nods and leans against the desk. “Of course, Finch. Have to give you something more difficult to do than grading papers after all.”

Harold looks at John sharply but looks away just as quickly. John does not know about his side project or its most recent termination.

“What, Finch?”

Harold looks at John again. “We all have our cover identities to keep up, mundane as they may be.” Harold waves a hand. “Except perhaps in your case.”

John's expression monetarily changes to one of guilt. Harold frowns in confusion. John stands up straight again and paces away from the desk. Harold watches him and stands slowly from his chair.

"Mr. Reese?"

“Harold…” John stops moving and turns around so he is facing Harold. “I kissed Iris today.”

Harold stares at John for a beat. “Your therapist?”

“Yes.”

Harold presses his lips together tightly then clicks his tongue. “I see.” Harold threads his fingers together then pulls them apart again almost immediately. “Well, that would certainly be a breach of the ethical rules in Dr. Campbell’s profession, though I suppose not entirely unbeneficial for the both of you if you were no longer her patient.” 

John’s jaw clenches. “That is not why I told you.”

Harold sighs quietly. He nods his head once. “I know.”

“I know you and I,” John says, “we’ve been apart; we’ve cooled things off with Samaritan and our covers.”

“You are not beholden to me, Mr. Reese. You may recall, I was the one who said we needed to stop.”

“You never said forever.”

Harold opens his mouth but stops and just breathes out. Harold crosses his arms and looks down at the concrete, stained different shades of off white and brown. He drums his fingers over his arm. “We never said it would start again either, Mr. Reese.”

“Harold, Iris is…” Harold looks up at John. He looks right at Harold as he speaks. “She is what I would have wanted before. She’s like Jessica.” He smiles a little. “Someone fragile and good that I should protect; someone who could make me better.”

“Sounds like therapy has illuminated parts of your psyche for you.” Harold tilts his head. “Though one could argue, you put me into that same category.”

John smiles for real at that. “You’re not fragile, Harold.” Harold huffs once and John takes a few steps back toward Harold. “And Iris is… Iris is what I think I want, not what I really want.”

"Not what you really want?"

John stops a meter in front of Harold and his hands ball into loose fists. He gives Harold a look but does not say anything; he does not need to. 

Harold uncrosses his arms and touches his finger tips to the wood of the computer desk. “In the interest of full clarity, I had coffee with Beth Bridges whom I met in Hong Kong and was planning on taking her to dinner this evening. It was an attempt to gain access to Samaritan, but not entirely.”

John raises an eyebrow. “Was?”

“Circumstances…” HHarold's hand itches to grab a nonexistent activation device and throw it at the wall. Guess Root beat him to that. “Circumstances changed.” Harold pulls his hand off the desk. “And as you said, Beth is… she is part of Harold Whistler’s life, or was, and Harold Whistler is not who I am.”

John smiles. “So what then, we’ve both had aborted love affairs in our cover identities?”

Harold laughs once. “I would hardly call them ‘love affairs,’ Mr. Reese.”

John shrugs. “It’s not a phrase I get to use often.”

“With good reason.”

John grins in his slightly awkward and sideways way, his body weight shifting him unconsciously closer to Harold, and Harold can guess the thoughts and sappy lines running across John’s mind. Harold takes a step closer to John. John looks at him and raises his eyebrows.

“Ms. Groves said something to me at Wall Street, just something in passing during all the chaos as we passed an original Degas.”

“Degas?” John says with surprise. 

“She said,” Harold continues, “‘what’s the point of saving the world if you can’t enjoy it?’”

“Are you saying we should go enjoy some art, Finch?” John says with a smile that shows the mirth in his words.

Harold tilts his head slightly as he is able. “I know you are not so obtuse, Mr. Reese.”

“No.”

Harold reaches out and takes John’s hand. “I think… I think you are right, John.” John’s fingers curl around Harold’s as he speaks. “I did not say ‘forever.’”

“Do you want to have dinner at my place?” John asks.

“Yes,” Harold replies.

 

Several hours later, Harold walks up the steps to John’s new apartment building. He has known where it is since the Machine created new covers for all of them but he has never physically been here. A woman pushes past him up the steps with a shopping bag in her hand. She buzzes herself in then glances back at him as she goes through the door. Her face changes in the way Harold has become used to now – limp, handicapped, should help – and she holds her hand flat against the glass of the door from where she stands just inside so he can pass through.

Harold smiles. “Thank you so much.”

She nods. “No problem,” and hurries on her way again, obligation completed.

Harold rides the elevator up to the fifth floor, walks down the hall then knocks on the door of number five–zero–five. The door opens ten seconds later and John smiles at Harold from the other side – dressed only in his white shirt and black pants now.

“Harold.”

“John.”

John steps back and holds his arm out, inviting Harold into the apartment. Harold walks past him into the living room – wood floor, windows across from him with a low bookshelf underneath them and a couch in between blocking Harold’s direct path. To the right Harold sees a kitchen with a peekaboo into the living room, varying sized pots hanging in the open space, dark wood cabinets, dark marble counter tops and light brown tile on the floor. Then the door closes behind Harold.

“The Machine did well,” Harold says as he turns.

John shrugs. “I added the curtains.”

Harold glances at the tan curtains with a barely describable cube pattern throughout. “The extent of your interior decorating?”

“Well, I bought sheets and towels to match.”

Harold laughs then holds out the bottle of red wine he brought. John takes it then walks to the kitchen. Harold slides his coat off his shoulders. He looks behind him again and sees a row of hooks on the wall and hangs his coat on a free one. As he turns back around, Bear trots up and sits down in front of him. Harold smiles and scratches Bear’s head.

“Hello Bear, have you been helping John? Now, ga liggen.” Bear stands again and walks away toward a dog bed Harold sees near the windows.

Harold steps over to the couch, drags his hand across the top edge as he looks around the living room – another cushioned chair catty cornered to the couch, coffee table in front of them, flat screen television on top of a low sideboard with drawers against the wall perpendicular to the outer wall and a hallway beside that leading back to more rooms. Between the cushioned chair and the kitchen is a small dining table with four chairs arranged with two on each long side.

“Harold?”

He looks up at John in the kitchen holding a corkscrew with the cork still on it in one hand. Harold smiles and walks to the kitchen, stopping in the doorway. John puts down the corkscrew and picks up a glass of wine from the counter, handing it to Harold.

“Thank you.”

“Thank you for bringing the wine.”

“The least I can do.”

John twists the cork off the corkscrew and smiles. “Not the least.”

Harold takes a brief sip of the wine then gestures with his hand holding the glass toward the stove behind John. “What are we having?”

“Butternut squash lasagna.” John points at the timer on the oven reading twenty–four minutes.

Harold raises his eyebrows in surprise. “Unusual.”

John shrugs. “Only a little.”

“Is that it?”

John chuckles. “Did you expect five courses?”

“I…” Harold clears his throat. “Of course not, I simply asked.”

John smiles and Harold knows John just enjoys teasing him. John picks up his own glass of wine and takes a gulp. Then he puts it back down on the counter, slides the bottle of wine against the wall and picks up the cork. He holds it out to Harold. 

Harold shakes his head. “I’m not much for saving mementos anymore.”

“Any more?” John notes.

Harold shrugs slightly. “I am sure I saved things at one point.”

“Logged search histories and credit card activities of exes, I bet.”

Harold snorts and swirls the wine around in his glass. “Cannot imagine where you would come up with such an idea, Mr. Reese.” John gives him a look. “John,” Harold corrects.

John nods once then steps back and walks over to where it appears the makings of a salad have begun. Harold crosses his arms and leans his shoulder against the door frame, wine glass still in one hand. He watches John as he chops cucumbers into a bowl which already includes romaine lettuce and arugula, adds walnuts and blue cheese crumbles, some cranberries and slices strawberries as well.

“Have you always been such a cook?” Harold asks.

John looks at Harold over his shoulder. “Haven’t we done this before?” Harold shakes his head, ‘no.’ John makes a ‘hmm’ face then turns back to the salad as he speaks. “Guess we never had time before with saving numbers just the two of us.”

“We don’t have time now.”

John turns and smiles. “We’re making time.” He puts down the knife and wipes his hands briefly on a small towel. “Though, I wouldn’t necessarily call myself a good cook.”

“Well, as I have yet to try your food, we can hold off on the determination of ‘good’ if you prefer.”

John chuckles then walks to the refrigerator and opens it. His eyes make a circle around the inside for a moment then he pulls out a plastic container of grape tomatoes. He crosses back to his cutting board and puts down the tomatoes. He opens the container, picks out a few and proceeds to slice them evenly lengthwise.

“John?”

“Hmm?” John replies tilting his head toward Harold to indicate he is listening as he chops.

Harold opens his mouth, he wants to tell John about his plan, about Root, about how his plan failed, how he sat dying in a hotel room today with a friend of theirs in order to save an innocent woman he hardly knows. Instead he says, “Thank you for dinner.”

John looks over his shoulder. "Maybe you could thank me once you've actaully had it."

Harold smiles. "True, but I am thanking you now for the effort of making it."

John purses his lips and smiles. “All right. You’re welcome.” He picks up the salad bowl. “Shall we have your first course?”

Harold chuckles once. “Certainly.”

“Coming up, monsieur,” John says with a smirk.

Harold tries not to smile for what feels like days.

John picks up the salad bowl and walks across the kitchen to the door. Harold stands up straight from the door jamb so he slightly blocks John’s path. John pauses and looks down at him. Harold reaches up and pulls John down by the back of his neck into a kiss. John makes a ‘oof’ noise of surprise then leans into the kiss, pressing harder so he pushes Harold back into the door frame. Harold holds his glass out to one side to avoid crushing it between them, kisses John back – feels stubble and just the lips he wants, and the way John tastes like something wild he has to control. Then Harold pulls back just a fraction, pulls his hand away from John's neck and puts it under the bowl slowly sliding down in John’s hands.

“Careful not to drop the salad, John.”

John blinks once then his fingers clench around the bowl. He gives Harold a ‘you know what you did’ look, kisses Harold once more lightly then turns away toward the table. John puts the salad bowl successfully down on the table between two place settings across the table from each other with shallow bowls and napkins already set up.

“Ah, forks.” John scoots around the table back into the kitchen as Harold sits down. The salad looks restaurant level professional and Harold wonders at a cover job in some French restaurant before John assassinated a diplomat. “There.” John puts a fork down beside Harold’s right hand.

John picks the tongs out of the bowl, serves some salad into Harold’s bowl and then into his own. He replaces the tongs in the bowl then sits down across from Harold. John passes a small pitcher with dressing inside across the table to Harold. It appears to be some sort of lemon vinaigrette dressing. Harold pours some on his salad then takes a bite.

“This is delicious,” Harold says. He frowns as he takes another bite. “Did you make the dressing too?” John shrugs as if this were something everyone does when making a salad at home. Harold purses his lips. “Hidden talents no doubt connected to your years as an international spy?”

“Of course, Harold.”

“It is wonderful.”

“Thank you.”

The two of them eat silently for several minutes, metal forks making soft clicking noises on the porcelain bowls, just enjoying the salad. When John's bowl is empty he puts his fork down on the edge of his bowl.

“About Harper.” Harold looks up at him. “If she is getting texts from the Machine there has to be a reason.”

“Of course.”

“Beyond whatever job or con she thinks she is doing with the information.”

“You mean a larger plan.”

“Yes.”

Harold picks up his napkin and wipes the edge of his mouth. “I am sure the Machine has many plans in play but whether we are to be party to them.” He shakes his head and makes a dismissive gesture with his hand. “Unfortunately, that is not up to us.”

“We could find out.”

Harold spears a strawberry and a tomato on the end of his fork – it looks odd for some reason, the contrasting fruits sharing the same salad – and he does not pretend to mistake what John means. “I imagine even if we should try and ask the Machine, it would not tell us.”

“Not us, Harold, but –“

“It is the same,” Harold interrupts. “If the Machine would not help Ms. Groves to find Ms. Shaw, why would it condescend to tell us its overarching plans in this instance?”

John stares at Harold then folds his hands together. “Did something happen?”

Harold sighs. “I... no." Harold rubs his forehead once, breathes out slowly and smiles again. “I only worry for Ms. Groves and I worry about the Machine and sometimes it feels all for naught as we never truly know what either of them are up to.”

John nods. “I know what you mean.”

Harold puts his fork down and smiles for real this time. “Now I’m just glad to be having an evening with you.”

“Good.” John glances at their dishes and the diminished bowl of salad. “Done?” Harold nods and starts to stand but John waves his hand and stands up instead. “I’ll get them.”

“Are you not going to let me help at all?”

John smiles. “No. I’m the one that asked you to dinner.”

“I think that does not exclude me from –“

“Quiet, Harold, and let me clear the bowls.”

Harold shuts his mouth as John takes away all the bowls and the forks and the dressing pitcher and the salad bowl. Harold takes a sip of his wine and watches John as he walks into the kitchen. Only a few seconds later the timer on the oven begins to beep. Harold takes a second sip of his wine, puts the glass down on the table then stands up. In the corner Bear moves to get up too but Harold says, ‘blijven,’ and Bear puts his head back down. Harold walks into the kitchen as John is taking the dish of pasta out of the oven. He closes the oven door with his hip then puts the Pyrex dish down on the stove top. He turns around as he takes off the oven mitts and looks at Harold.

“It should cool for about ten minutes before we eat it.”

“Fine.” Harold sniffs the air. “It smells wonderful.”

“Thanks.” 

John puts the oven mitts away in a drawer then leans back against the counter. Harold crosses his arms and leans back against the opposite counter behind him. They stand silently and stare at each other while the smell of baked lasagna fills the kitchen.

Finally John says, “Harold.”

And Harold says, “John?”

John takes three steps forward, Harold takes two then they are in each other’s arms. They kiss and touch and kiss harder, Harold’s hands in John’s hair, finger tips across the skin of John’s neck and John’s hands slide up Harold’s back then down again, around his side. It is not frenzied and wild and fast but it is insistent, it is familiar and it is needed. John kisses Harold’s jaw line, moves further by Harold’s ear and down to his neck. Harold breathes in sharply, closes his eyes, runs his hands down John’s chest. Then John shifts back, kisses Harold’s lips, his tongue against Harold’s and John pushes the two of them back until Harold hits the counter. Harold scratches his nails along John’s neck so John gasps into the kiss and then John starts to undo buttons on Harold’s vest.

Harold pulls back and grips John’s hands. “Wait."

"Harold," John groans and kisses him again.

Harold pulls back enough to speak against John's lips. "I would prefer not to have sex in your kitchen.”

“Uh,” John looks up, out into the other room. “The couch is close.”

“You have a bedroom, John,” Harold reminds him.

John closes his eyes and opens them again. “Right, right.” 

Then John steps back, Harold turns around and walks out the kitchen door. John puts his hand on the small of Harold’s back steering him unnecessarily toward the hall, down and to the right into John’s bedroom. The room is not too small for a New York apartment – one window with nearly closed blinds, one bed with no headboard and a gray comforter, one dresser and no mirror, one closet – and then John passes Harold as he enters the room and everything else pales. Harold flips his suit jacket off his shoulders, watching John unbutton the buttons of his shirt. Harold steps closer to John, puts his jacket over the top of the dresser, then laughs once as John’s fingers start to fail with the small buttons.

“Here,” Harold says and starts to unbutton each button down John’s chest.

John kisses Harold’s temple, tries to work at the buttons on Harold’s vest but their hands get in each other’s way. Harold chuckles again, tries to slap John’s hands away but John keeps smiling and kisses Harold again so he cannot see the buttons.

Harold closes his eyes, “you’re making this difficult,” as he undoes the buttons by feel.

“I blame you.”

Harold huffs into the kiss but it is full of humor. Then the buttons on John’s shirt are all open and John breaks the kiss to pull the shirt out of his pants and off his shoulders. Harold backs up a step, focuses on the buttons of his vest, most already undone, and pulls it off too, dropping it on the floor.

John smirks. “When you get careless with your clothes, Harold, you’re either sick or –“

Harold grabs John’s belt, sits back on the bed and pulls John with him so John’s legs knock against the edge of the bed between Harold’s. He quickly unhooks John’s belt and yanks it off through the belt loops with an audible crack.

Harold looks up at John again. “I’m what, John?”

John shoves Harold onto his back as he climbs on top of Harold, kissing all the way. They fumble and kiss and try to shed clothing without letting each other go; kicking off shoes, shimmying out of pants, yanking at Harold's tie, John's watch; John knocks into Harold’s glasses as he kisses Harold again, Harold laughs and John takes off his glasses, says, “look at that, I can see your eyes” and Harold scratches his nails up John’s bare hip to shut him up and John gasps, bites Harold’s neck so they both are gasping.

They touch and kiss – and hot and tight and smooth and rough and yes, yes, please and it has been too long – Harold propped up on pillows, John over Harold, rise and fall, and Harold’s hand balancing John’s thigh and quiet gasping, until they lie side by side with the covers half pushed off the bed, tired and sated and not too sweaty all things considered. 

John rolls away after a moment then rolls back again and he pushes Harold’s glasses into hand. Harold chuckles quietly and puts his glasses back on so everything appears in focus again. Harold rolls carefully onto his side, picks an angle of pillows so neither his neck or hip protests. John lies on his back still, eyes on the celling and slowing down his breath. Harold watches him breathe and puts his hand over the crook in John’s arm. John turns his head and looks at Harold.

"The lasagna," John says suddenly.

Harold blinks. "What?"

"We left the lasagna in the kitchen."

"Did you think we should have brought it with us?"

John kisses Harold once then sits up and jumps out of the bed. Harold looks around for John's boxers but John walks out of the room without even a glance for clothing.

"John, you..." Harold huffs. "Ridiculous."

Harold looks around the bedroom and finds his own boxers and undershirt, pulling them on. A few minutes later John returns with the dish of lasagna and two forks in his hand.

Harold raises his eyebrows. "I feel going to the kitchen naked just invites disaster."

"There were no stove eyes or ovens on, no danger of burning."

"And no plates."

"We're eating it in bed, Harold. We can be less formal." John holds out a fork to Harold as he sits down on the bed again and puts the lasagna dish down on the sheets.

Harold takes the fork and stabs into the pasta. "As you wish, John." He takes a bite and makes a 'hmm' noise of satisfaction.

John grins and scoops some on to his fork. "Still a bit warm too, yeah?"

"Well," Harold says and he dips his fork back into the dish, "we haven't been in here that long."

"Not yet."

Harold smiles and points at the lasagna with his fork. "It's good."

"Good." John sits back against the pillows as they eat then looks at Harold. "Harold, I want to apologize."

Harold frowns. "Apologize?"

"For Iris."

Harold huffs. "John, even if your actions were something which would require an apology I would say you've more than made up for it."

John laughs and take another bite. "Still."

"If anyone should apologize it should be me."

John frowns. "What?"

Harold puts down his fork on the edge of the dish. John pauses mid chew and raises his eyebrows. 

"I nearly died today," Harold says.

John stares at him for a beat then says in his angry tone, "Harold..."

"I had the choice to let someone die or to sacrifice myself."

"Harold, what did you –"

"I am alive, Mr. Reese." John's brow furrows in annoyance. "My point is that the way our situation is now we could die, could be killed at any time no matter how careful we try to be. We've had enough close calls or worse with Samaritan despite all our precautions to prove that."

"So?"

"So, if the future is so uncertain, why be unhappy in the time we have?"

John smiles slowly. "That's a very... unlike you thing to say, Harold."

Harold rolls his eyes. "Thank you, John."

"Does this mean I can expect more evenings of cooking for you when we're not saving numbers or having near death experiences?"

Harold huffs out an amused breath. "Yes, John, I think so."

John puts his fork down in the lasagna. "Good." He picks up the dish, stands up and puts it on top of his dresser – clear of Harold's suit jacket. He turns and sits back on the bed beside Harold. "I also think you should stay the night."

"Is that so? Well," Harold pats the bed, "your bed does feel more comfortable than mine."

"And you need to tell me why you nearly died today and I am just hearing anything about it now."

"I do?"

"Yes." John looks at Harold – naked and open and smiling and not a sight anyone could dare walk away from – and touches Harold's hand. "So stay."

Harold leans close, entwines their fingers, kisses John – keeps him as close as can be. "I will, John, I will."


End file.
